Memory Lane

As part of a graduation present for my cousin, I've been going through masses upon masses of old pictures. For the most part, the experience has been great; I love looking back at moments completely frozen in time, otherwise forgotten if not for a camera. There's my 5-year-old self on my first amusement park ride, as well as my fifteen-year-old self getting my ears pierced for the second time. Each picture holds a memory, and I can almost instantly place myself back in time to the exact moment captured.

Some pictures, though, are harder to see. They pop up when I least expect it and hold memories I've tried to squash for years. People come in and out of your life--this is an undisputed fact. Not everyone sticks around forever, no matter how much you want them to. Some short-lived relationships pan out in pictures, whether it's a birthday party surrounded by your then-best friend or a high school dance, in the arms of your dream boy.

Some pictures I've hidden for so long, I almost forgot they existed.

My mind may have forgotten, but my heart didn't. One look at some of these images, and I can almost feel the sharp sting of loss. Whether it's looking at my grandmother, who I only knew for fifteen short years, or old family friends who left without a care, going back down memory lane just plain hurts. I don't like taking myself back down old paths, because the past is the past. No matter how hard I deny it, the proof stays directly in front of me. These pictures remind me that some of that nasty stuff really did happen, and there's nothing I can do to erase it.

No matter how many times I rip up pictures from my junior dance, the heartbreak doesn't go away. No matter how many times I avoid a cemetery, my grandmother is still gone. No matter how many years I spend in denial, it happened. All of it. Looking at the proof feels like being slapped in the face all over again, the carefully placed band aid ripped off the wound.

And yet, it's different every time. With almost four years between myself and the most painful of memories, I can see that time does heal things. Not everything, by far--but it can create a sense of calm, and more importantly, a sense of self. I am who I am because of my past. It's not pretty, and my scars haven't healed. But without the past, there is no present, and therefore no future. The past belongs in the past; it belongs in the 4x6 photographs stored away in boxes, brought out only once in a while. The future is blank, undeveloped--and it's up to me now how those pictures turn 0ut.

It's a responsibility I'm more than willing to accept.